


the truth shall make you odd

by bittereternity



Series: Indescribable [3]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Fluff, M/M, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:05:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittereternity/pseuds/bittereternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a Sunday morning in January, Spencer Reid breaks up with Derek Morgan. Some stories begin at the end, but that doesn't mean they aren't worth it. Or, snapshots of Reid trying to figure out this relationship he has with Morgan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the truth shall make you odd

And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.

 _Slaughterhouse Five,_ Kurt Vonnegut

*

_zero._

On a Sunday morning in January, Spencer Reid breaks up with Derek Morgan.

This is not a comfortable beginning. You would  prefer _their eyes met across a crowded room_ or _they both smiled and started moving towards each other._ These beginnings are clean, comfortable. These beginnings are hopeful; they make you empathize and cheer for a future that may just be better than the present.

At first glance, nothing good can come of the fact: Spencer Reid breaks up with Derek Morgan on a Sunday morning in January.

This is, however, the hard, cold fact.

Picture this:

On a Sunday morning in January, Reid and Morgan stand side by side in front of the washbasin and brush their teeth in almost perfect synchronicity. Morgan is the first one to finish brushing, and he bends down to spit in the basin before straightening and rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. Spencer continues to brush his teeth and gazes vaguely at his own reflection in the mirror before he registers Derek muttering about forgetting to buy his particular brand of mouthwash.

The only thing Reid feels is a mild stab of irritation. _We were just at the drug store yesterday,_ he almost wants to say.  Morgan continues to rummage the cabinet in hopes of an extra bottle of mouthwash stashed somewhere. Finally, he shakes his head and turns towards him.

“Can I borrow some of your mouthwash for today?” he asks.

Reid takes a deep breath. The mild irritation festering in his chest grows, expands until all of a sudden, he is unable to breathe and there is something vindictive, hateful, _ugly_ trying to rear its head and burst out from his own chest. Morgan is looking at him expectantly and all of a sudden, for reasons that he cannot even understand, for reasons that have nothing to do with a deficit of mouthwash, he feels like the walls are suffocating him, like he’s trapped in a room with carbon monoxide, like there’s a pair of hands physically crushing his throat.

His heart starts beating faster and for no reason whatsoever, a sudden, vicious surge of adrenaline and a rooted desire to _live,_ to make it floods through him. He looks at Morgan, and feels like a dying man taking his last shuddering breaths as random, unconnected flashes of their relationship flash through his brain. He sees Morgan smiling, leaning forward to touch his cheek or brush his lip with his thumb, pouring coffee for himself in the morning, going for a jog, going to sleep under a layer of blankets. There are countless memories of time spent with each other on the couch at the end of the day, except that’s not _true,_ they’ve only shared a couch in front of the television two hundred and eighty-seven times and he knows this with as much certainty as he knows statistics about serial killers. In a sudden moment of clarity, he realizes that _this_ , this bond that has led to an expectation of mutual sharing of mouthwash, needs to end.

Morgan asks: “Can I borrow some of your mouthwash?”

Reid feels something bubble within his chest, something that isn’t physiological and he _knows_ this too, because he hasn’t made any altercations in his diet in a long while. He feels something bubble within his chest and recognizes it as a confounding mix of affection tinged with the slightest bit of loathing. It’s a paradox and it doesn’t _fit_ and all he can think is _I love you so, so much._

Reid takes a deep breath and turns towards him.

*

_plus._

On a Sunday morning in January, Morgan turns to Reid and asks if he can borrow some mouthwash.

In reply, Reid takes a deep breath and turns towards him.

The moment of clarity, when it finally comes to him, is extremely underrated and supremely inconvenient.

_I love you so, so much and I don’t understand how it ever happened and I cannot comprehend how you ever let me love you and it is the scariest thing I’ve ever faced because I’ve never not understood anything and yet, here I am loving you so much and not understanding, not understanding and loving you-_

In reply, Reid says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Again, you might say that this isn’t an appropriate, hopeful beginning that indicates better things to come.

You might, and in fact, you _will_ say that a love story that begins with a doomed relationship does not, _cannot_ bode well for any of the people involved.

You will be wrong.

*  
 _minus._

“We are an anomaly,” Reid announces as he walks in with an armful of groceries.

It’s the eve of their ten-month anniversary.

Morgan stops flipping the channels, lays the remote back on the table and waits for Reid to continue.

“Our relationship is an anomaly,” Reid repeats.

Morgan smiles wryly. “I always forget how charming you are when you try to be romantic.”

Reid swats him in the arm with a bottle of mouthwash. “I’m serious.”

Morgan turns on the couch to look at him fully. “Because we’re a same-sex couple?” he asks.

Reid shakes his head. “I know the statistics for that too, and while there are reports on dissolution of same-sex couples under societal pressures, I was actually talking about the fact that we have a successful, committed relationship while simultaneously holding high-pressure jobs with a potential career-clash, and the fact that we have mutually identical support systems.”

Morgan takes a deep breath, tries to translate Reid-speak into colloquial English. “Career clash?” he needs to know.

Reid shrugs and puts away the last can of tinned soup. “I’m just saying. I get offers from all sorts of universities and think-tanks all the time, and you’re being pursued by at least five Divisional Units. It’s not unnatural if either of us decide to go down the envy road at some point.”

Morgan scratches vaguely at an invisible mark on the sofa. “So your problem is that we are somehow beating the odds by staying together and not succumbing to mass hysteria by having some sort of a scene in the middle of the BAU?”

Reid laughs and makes his way to the couch to sit next to him.

_two hundred and sixty-nine but he isn’t counting; there’s no point in categorizing memories when you think you have forever to make more-_

“Of course not,” he says, kissing Morgan’s cheek lightly. “I’m just saying that we’re an anomaly. I’m glad that we are.”

Morgan moves a little closer. “You should opened with that.”

Reid nods and automatically moves one of his hands so that it touches Morgan’s. “No, I _am_ glad that we’re an anomaly. It’s just disconcerting.”

Morgan laughs and ruffles his hair affectionately. “Being content makes you uneasy?”

“No,” Reid frowns, and feels something shift between them except it’s gone before he has any time to dissect it further. “It’s the implied _lack_ of discontent that makes me uneasy.”

Morgan’s hands stills for a second over his. He doesn't have anything more to say in return.

*  
 _plus._

For all his genius and meticulousness, Reid doesn't take this into account: terminating a relationship doesn’t lead to a sudden halt in communication between them, especially given their occupation. He tries to be discreet all the same, tries to move his belongings out little by little when he knows Morgan wouldn’t be there, just to make it a little easier on both of them.

That’s why he finds himself tensing when he hears the key turn and Clooney barking as he’s moving out the last of his things, a couple weekends later.

It would have been their three hundred and thirty-third day together.

Morgan opens the door, sees him and stops abruptly. “Ah,” he says.

Someone coughs. He thinks the sound might be coming from himself.

“I’m sorry,” Reid is quick to offer. “I thought you would be out.”

Morgan shrugs. “I came back early.” He walks over to the fridge and takes out a bottle of water for himself. “Want some?” he offers.

Reid shakes his head. The box in his hand feels heavy and ungainly, and he sets it down on the counter to arrange the items briefly. “I thought,” he says, half-burying his head in the box to rearrange the last of his books, “I would be out of here before you returned. I didn't know if you wanted to see me, you know, outside of work.”

Morgan scoffs. Takes another large gulp of water. “Don’t worry about it,” he bites out. “Should I be thanking you for being concerned?”

Reid’s head snaps up to look at him, and lightly hits the lid of the carton. A couples of bottles fall from his slackened grip and hit the ground.

Morgan looks away.

He bends down to pick up the bottles and feels Morgan’s stare on his back.

“Looks like you did have some extra mouthwash after all,” he says wryly, and Reid finally registers the half-finished bottle of mouthwash in his own hand.

“I don’t know what’s appropriate to say here,” is what he finally offers.

Morgan scoffs again. Moves to the couch with his bottle of water. “I just need to know something,” he says finally. “I just need to know that we didn’t break up over a fucking bottle of mouthwash.”

Reid has to laugh. It sounds inane, now that he hears it. “We didn’t break up over a bottle of mouthwash,” he repeats.

Morgan looks at him expectantly and Reid balks. All of a sudden, he feels like words are slipping away from him. He tries to grasp at them, hold them within the arcs of his hands and he still feels them escaping away, moving just that littlest bit out of his reach.

“You asked me for mouthwash and I didn’t _know,_ ” he says finally. “It just seemed like we had reached a point of terrifying familiarity and I was even allowed to see you spit out toothpaste and pick out earwax and I didn’t _know_ how it all…accelerated.” It’s the closest he will ever get to an apology.

Morgan sighs into his bottle. For a moment, he looks incredibly tired, irreparably sad. This time, Reid identifies the crushing feeling in his chest as guilt.

“I,” he begins to say, but Morgan has already turned away.

With nothing else left to say, he hugs the last box of his things to his chest and walks out.

*

_plus._

Reid looks up from the article he’s reading when he hears the tapping of feet against the leg of his desk. He looks up to see Garcia squinting down at him through narrowed eyes. He raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Are you alright?” she asks, and pulls an adjacent chair to sit opposite him.

He shrugs. “Why wouldn't I be?”

It would have been their thirteen-month anniversary.

Garcia sighs; it’s an unpleasant sound when it’s coming from her. “Well, you’re still here at nine in the evening, and you can’t _possibly_ have that much paperwork.” Reid tries to shift his attention back towards his article.

“Also,” Garcia lowers her voice and continues more softly, “he told me about today.”

Reid takes a deep breath and switches off his monitor. “Garcia,” he begins, and finds himself without a clue as to what he should say next.

“Look,” Garcia puts a hand on his shoulder and forces him to look at the earnestness in her eyes. “I know this isn’t any of my business. But,” she takes a shuddering breath, “my best friends are hurting and I just want to know how I can help. I refuse to take a side or choose one of you over the other because we are a _family,_ and we might be strained but I will not let my family fall apart completely.”

“Garcia,” Reid almost pleads, but she cuts him off.

“No, I know you, and I know him and I know that whatever this is can be fixed _somehow._ And you might think I am this naïve, optimistic bimbo or that whatever happened between you two is different from any other problem anyone’s ever had, but you are hurting, Reid. You are _both_ hurting and I can’t keep seeing that, you see?”

“ _Garcia,_ ” Reid’s voice would be firm if only he could stop the damn tremors. “You can’t do this.”

“Can’t do _what?”_ Garcia urges.

“You can’t feel sorry for me,” he finally bursts out, and is instantly thankful for the lateness of the hour and the emptiness of his surroundings.

“I’m the one who chose to run away. Didn’t he tell you _that,_ of all things?”

Garcia’s eyes soften and her shoulders slump.  “Not in so many words, but I inferred,” she smiles weakly.

Reid falls back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair. “I think I ran away because I found myself unable to calculate the odds of us having a long-term successful monogamous relationship.”

Garcia blinks.

“I’m a man of science,” Reid elaborates. “And there is no branch of science that I can apply to the makings of a relationship. There is no data I can extrapolate from, and no set protocol that I can follow. And I didn’t think it appropriate to subject what was my relationship into a mundane routine of trial and error.”

Garcia frowns and tries to close her mouth. “So you were scared of being vulnerable without any of your sciency backup and decided to bolt?”

Reid closes his eyes and rubs them vigorously. “Pretty much.”

Garcia breathes out a watery laugh. To his ears, it’s the most pleasant of sounds. “He isn’t going to wait forever for you, you know,” she finally says.

Reid’s eyes snap open. He chances a look at her and glances down at his hands.

“But,” she continues softly, “you’re lucky. He’s willing to wait a _long_ time.”

Reid half-looks at her through lowered lashes. “It’s _almost_ forever,” she says kindly.

Reid feels himself smiling back almost involuntarily. “Yeah?” he asks, and hates that he cannot fully keep out a tinge of hope.

She simply nods.

They sit in quiet for a while before she moves to get up and squeezes his shoulders one last time.

She’s almost out of the bullpen when she turns back.

“So you really couldn’t calculate those odds?” she asks.

Reid shakes his head. “No, I _could_ , technically. I just couldn't stand knowing in case I didn't like the odds.”

*  
 _minus._

“Was this a date?” Reid asks as soon as the credits begin to roll and the lights go back up on the big screen.

Morgan laughs. “You lasted much longer than I thought you would,” he admits.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Reid points out.

Morgan shrugs. “We went out for a kebab and watched a movie. Do you _want_ it to be a date?”

“I-” Reid stumbles, and changes tracks as they walk out into the street. “In conventional romantic settings, a dinner and a movie is considered to be the standard first date. In fact, in most cases, the success of the first date is often heightened if the company during said dinner and movie is considered highly enjoyable. And yes, while these are also perfectly ordinary platonic activities, I have to point out that you only asked _me_ and excluded any other members of the team, your body language is alternating between relaxed and nervous, and you have spent the whole evening making sure I've had enough to drink and/or eat.”

Morgan sighs and buttons his jacket. “ _Reid._ We just had an enjoyable evening. Why won’t you just answer my question?”

Reid frowns, and shivers a little at the cool breeze. “I don’t know,” he says, finally, tightening his scarf around his neck. “If I say I’m not sure, would it be inappropriate?”

“That depends,” Morgan replies. “Are you unsure because you don’t how you feel or because you’re just not interested and want to let me down easy?”

Reid turns to look at Morgan. Unbidden, he thinks that Morgan’s eyes look beautiful when they’re slightly narrowed in the cold, and then he gives himself a mental smack for thinking of something so mundane. Except, he reasons, the streetlight _is_ reflecting off Morgan’s eyes because they are standing right opposite a streetlight, and there is chilly enough for Morgan to have to lick his lips to keep them moist and enough of a breeze for him to narrow his eyes slightly and he knows, _knows_ that these are simply natural responses to one’s body adjusting to the environment and he shouldn't be finding these reactions attractive in the first place except, except –

“Reid?” Morgan taps him gently on the shoulder. “You’re kind of leaving me in a lurch here.”

Morgan coughs slightly, possibly to mask a tinge of embarrassment and he knows that there isn't such a thing as a _beautiful_ cough except all Reid can think is that it’s a beautiful sound, just like all other sounds he’s ever heard Morgan make, just like every other sound he’s neatly filed in a corner of his mind.

“I, uh,” he says quietly, “think I’m unsure because I _do_ know how I feel.”

Morgan frowns at him.

“And I don’t know how you feel in return,” he offers. “I can guess, but I don’t _know._ ”

Morgan places both his hands on his shoulder and presses gently until he can automatically feel himself moving closer. He can feel Morgan’s breath on his chin now, gently tickling at his nerve endings. He loosens his own shoulders in response and feels Morgan’s hand move up to his cup the sides of his face and contour the arches underneath his shirt collar.

“Is it alright if I kiss you?” Morgan asks, ever so gentle, ever so patient, ever so _polite_.

And Reid lowers his eyes and bends down the littlest bit until he makes direct eye contact with Morgan. He resists the urge to say something, anything that can be measured in terms of an iambic pentameter and under the streetlight that reflects off Morgan’s eyes and surrounded by the cool breeze, he lifts his hands to engulf Morgan, to surround him from both sides, to embrace him.

_you’re beautiful and kind and patient and chivalrous and one day, I will run out of adjectives that accurately describe what it is you mean to me and –_

_still, still I  will go through every permutation of every alphabet of every language I’ve ever learnt and I will come up with a combination that defines you and –_

In reply, Reid says, “Yes.”

*  
 _one._

On a Sunday morning in March, Reid wakes up to a knock on his door.  He peeps through the keyhole, opens the door and stares.

“ Didn't expect to see me here?” Morgan asks him wryly and Reid can only stare and this does not _fit_.

“No,” is all he can say.

He doesn’t expect Morgan to laugh, but he does so nonetheless. Reid shifts his weight against his door and looks up again.

“This is an impolite question,” he begins, “but what are you doing here?”

Morgan takes his hands out of his pockets, clenches them briefly and puts them back in again. He looks down. “Garcia spoke to me,” he says.

“Ah,” is all Reid can say in reply. He tries to quell the brief spark of anger at that explanation, but finds himself too exhausted to react any further. Nevertheless, Morgan is quick to clarify.

“Don’t worry, she didn’t actually _say_ anything,” he says hastily. “I was the one doing most of the talking. She just sort of… hinted.”

“Ah,” Reid repeats, for a lack of anything better to say.

They stand at his doorway for long minutes, looking at anywhere but one another and the silence stretches, expands like it’s a tangible item made of elastic and rubber and –

“I got scared,” Reid spits out finally. “But I’m sure you knew that already. I got scared of not, you know, _knowing._ ”

Morgan’s eyes look unbearably kind. “Why didn’t you just talk to me about it?” he finally asks.

Reid looks away. Shrugs. Doesn’t look for an answer because he knows that he won’t find one. “I just needed to be able to _breathe_ ,” he says. “I couldn’t breathe.”

“I know,” Morgan says, softly.

“I regret so much about the way I executed things.”

“I know,” Morgan lowers his voice to an almost-whisper.

“It wasn’t my intention to _hurt_ you--” he trails off.

“I _know,_ ” Morgan whispers firmly, and his breath catches in his throat.

They are quiet for a second and Reid tries to look anywhere but at Morgan except suddenly he’s everywhere, taking up all his space and breathing the same air and occupying the space right adjacent. He feels like he’s being encircled, that every cell in his body is being explored and that someone is paying attention to every inch of his being, every last hair on his body and it’s intoxicating to have Morgan’s eyes raking all over him, it makes him feel simultaneously _rich_ and extremely content to have someone look at him like that, like they are willing to look at him for an unquantifiable amount of time, like he is beautiful and real and larger than life all at once.

And he feels that crushing feeling in his chest all over again, except, except this time the panic is that those eyes will _leave_ , that the warmth encircling him will disappear and he will be left standing all alone in his nightwear at his doorstep on a cold Sunday morning in March.

“Garcia said that you would wait,” he says, almost inaudibly, and looks down at his feet in a conscious effort to not look at Morgan’s face.

He feels Morgan let out a harsh breath in the cold. “She was right,” he says finally.

Reid lets out a breath he wasn't aware of holding and _laughs_ , laughs even as he clenches his fists tightly at his sides, laughs even as his chest aches and his vision becomes just the slightest bit blurry.

“I don’t want to make you wait anymore,” he murmurs.

It’s an agonizing wait for a few seconds before Morgan reaches out to place a hand under his chin and tips his face upwards.

“Yeah?” Morgan whispers, and he feels himself smiling as he nods silently.

“I, uh, might need a manual of some sort to get through this,” he informs Morgan as he lifts a hand to cup Morgan’s face.

Morgan laughs too. “Sorry, Reid,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t think they sell one of those.” He brings his hand down to fumble in his coat pocket before pulling out a hastily wrapped box and holding it out.

“I did, however, get a couple of these for us. You know, in case you said yes.”

Reid takes the offered package and rips the outer covering. Stares blandly at the content of the cardboard box.

“It’s a graphics calculator,” he states. “I had one of those when I was in grad school.”

Morgan nods. “It’s a graphics calculator,” he repeats, and abruptly looks unsure of what he has to say next. “I know you like to quantify things. And I can’t predict.. if we _do_ do this, I can’t predict what’s going to happen. I can’t extrapolate from current data or whatever statisticians do these days. But I just wanted to let you know that I will try to learn every single form of quantification there is, that I will try my best to understand and _tell_ you everything about our relationship in the most tangible of terms, so that you never have to be that unsure again.”

He clears his throat. “You told me once that you know what it’s like to be scared of your own mind. And I’m giving this to you, and to myself, because I’m trying to tell you that I will try my best to quantify all that I can about us so that you will always have a data point to fall back on even when you have to end up dealing with the unknown.”

Reid stares at him. He stares at Morgan even as his hands tremble around the calculator and his heart _thumps_ against his ribcage hard enough for something to fracture and his cheeks hurt from smiling and his eyes burn with unshed tears. His mind _swirls_ all around him, and it’s difficult, it’s all too difficult to do anything more meaningful other than standing there and staring because for once in his life, he feels all his intellect, his vast knowledge, his plethora of information of every topic imaginable take a back seat as he simply stands there and _feels._

On a cold Sunday morning in March, he stands in his doorway and looks at a model of a graphics calculator and looks at Morgan and looks everywhere and all he can do is _feel_ and it feels like his heart with explode from sheer pressure,  like he is filled with helium and about to soar any second now and he knows, _knows_ none of these are physiological reactions except, except there has to be an underlying reason for why his hands are trembling and his legs are wobbly and he feels like he’s going to have a heart attack and the reason, in all its physical form, is standing in front of him.

_I love you so, so much and how can you possibly think that I could begin to quantify what I feel for you because there exists no number, rational or irrational, no equation or algorithm that is ever going to make me feel this, feel like I exist for the sole purpose of loving you and –_

He looks at Morgan, looks at Morgan looking back at him. “Come in,” he says, and opens the door for him.

*


End file.
